The clay oven under construction. Photo: Rawan Sabah

After October 7, 2023, when everything we took for granted was torn away — electricity, gas, and, most painfully, our homes — clay ovens became our lifeline. They weren’t just ovens; they were the very essence of survival. They became indispensable, the only means to cook, bake, and stay alive. Families placed their pots and pans on top of these ovens, praying for the heat they desperately needed to feed their loved ones.

But the fragility of the clay and months of heavy use caused the oven in our tent camp to shatter, a devastating loss. Every desperate attempt to fix the unfixable ended in failure.

So I made a resolute decision: I would rebuild the oven. I enlisted the help of friends and took up a collection to hire a professional mason to work with us and guide us through the process.

The first challenge we encountered was that the war had cut off cement from Gaza, and the only clay available was from the dangerous border areas, nearly impossible to reach. Yet we had no choice but to persist. The mason working with us took the risk and managed to obtain the materials.

The first step was making the cement base. We placed iron around the base and an iron framework inside, then applied the cement on top of the iron by using circular mold.

The base for the oven. Photo: Rawan Sabah

The second step was to mix the clay, straw, and water. In a bucket, we stirred the mixture by hand and with a thick stick, and we placed thick nylon and sand on top of the cement base in an arch shape to give the internal shape of the oven. This is considered the hardest stage. Then, we built the clay over the nylon using only our hands, which took us three days. Due to the weather, we had to let it dry for about four days.

In the final step, we removed the sand from inside and let the oven dry completely for two more days. After those nine days, it was ready to use. We were overjoyed that the fatigue had not been in vain.

The process of creating it was tiring and had to be precise to avoid mistakes that could lead to its destruction, such as adding too much water to the mud or allowing children near it before it had completely dried. We had to wear old clothes to avoid ruining newer ones, because it was a messy job. We also had to be patient, since it’s important to wait for the oven to dry completely. One of the frustrating aspects was that after completing the construction, the weather turned very cold, and it started raining, which delayed the drying after the oven was covered. Finally, it was ready to use.

The rules for using the oven were the same as those of the previous oven, which women of the camp had established among themselves. I was not always present at the oven during baking time, but the rules were generally respected in order to avoid problems, such as two women showing up at the same time to bake.

The cost to use the ovens around us was prohibitive — 6 or 7 ILS just to bake 20 hand-size loaves, an amount no family could afford every day. That’s about 200 ILS a month, a sum out of reach for most. So our oven was free to use.

Families had to sign up on a schedule. Those who had signed up first baked first, while others had no choice but to wait their turn. There were exceptions for sick mothers or urgent needs, but for the most part, it was a strict order. Bread was the first priority; only after all bread was baked could we bake pies or biscuits. No children were allowed near the oven — it was too dangerous.

I came to realize that the oven was more than just a tool. It had become a gathering place, a sanctuary where women came together to laugh, share, and heal. Women met each afternoon, sometimes staying until evening. They made tea, baked biscuits, and even roasted canned chickpeas and peas, crafting a substitute for nuts. The oven was a place to share stories, gossip, and laughter, to be human again amidst the wreckage of war.

Often, in these sessions, I felt like a therapist, an understanding listener for the problems women shared with me. A friend in the camp often sat beside me and told me about how she dealt with her husband. Despite my young age, she always consulted me. I didn’t give her advice, but listened until she finished, to put her at ease.

Once she told me, “He asked me to go out and bring some food, knowing that I didn’t have any money. I told him I wouldn’t be able to bring the food and suggested he go find work for himself. Then he insulted me and kicked me out of the tent.”

I tried to comfort her by saying maybe he was just angry about other things, but it was of no use. She kept crying, and I hugged her. At that moment, I believed that all she needed was someone to listen to her without pity, so I did what I could.

One day a woman made a pizza with chicken spice, a rare treat, eaten with fresh bread. Everyone gathered to taste it. “Oh, how delicious!” I said. “Please tell me your recipe.”

“The secret is in the spices,” she told me. “When you plan to make it, ask me for the spices, and I will give them to you.” One of the women asked for more bread, then even tried to sneak the dish away before we’d finished eating it, saying she needed to feed her husband.

Another woman tried baking a cake with coffee. When the dish was ready, she cut a small piece and offered it to my aunt, who was sitting with us that day. She cut another piece for herself to taste. My aunt thanked her and started chewing. She quickly stopped and looked at me, her brows furrowed, though she remained silent. A few seconds later, the woman who’d prepared the dish tasted it and began to laugh so hard that we all, except for my aunt, were surprised. My aunt joined in the laughter, because she knew it wasn’t tasty.

“It’s not delicious at all,” said the baker, trying to catch her breath. “The taste of the coffee is too strong. And I forgot to add baking powder, so the cake turned out more like biscuits and tasted worse.”

“It’s true,” my aunt finally said, still shaking with laughter, “Not delicious at all.”

The baker offered to let some of the women taste the cake, but no one accepted. “I can’t bear the thought of my husband’s reaction,” she said. “But I’m going to take the cake home to him anyway and hope he won’t notice.”

But for all the laughter, there were moments of deep sorrow. Baking, knowing your neighbors had nothing, was a constant reminder of our shared struggle. One night, a friend came to me, tears in her eyes, and told me, “I am very sad. I have not been able to provide bread for my children for the past 20 days. It’s not as important for the older children, but when my daughter, who is only two, came asking for bread, I found myself crying, because I couldn’t provide her with any.”

We shared what we could, though it never seemed to be enough to meet the great needs. But I reminded myself that despite the hardships we may face in life, hope remained the light that guided us through the darkest moments. In the process of rebuilding the oven, I felt as if I were creating hope with my own hands and bringing life back to the camp’s inhabitants.